AUNT  JANE'S  LITTLE  CABIN. 


OLE    ANN 


AND 


OTHER     STORIES 


BY 


JEANNETTE  GRACE   WATSON 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 

BERTHA    ROCKWELL 


THE    SAALFIELD    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  AKRON,  OHIO  CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,   1905, 

BY 
THE  SAALFIELD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


MADE    BY 

THE    WERNER    COVPANy 
•     AKRON,    OHIO 


: 


iws 

MA/AJ 


Uln  ty*  fateful  olb  01ja&nni0. 
011  wnpI|a0t5Ph  tl|?  0im0Iiut*  nf  mg  ^arlj;  Uf?, 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Ole  Ann             %          .          .          .          .  .  .  .        15 

Monon      .      v  .        .  .          .          ...  .  .  .23 

The  Day  Before  Yesterday              .          ...  .  .  .        33 

After  Freedom  Came             .          .          .  .  .        55 

Uncle  Davie  and  the  Telephone      .          .  .  .  .71 

Polly 75 

Cupid  and  Rose            .          .          .           .  .  .  .85 

Pauliny      .          .                     .           .          .  .  .  .97 

Julie .  .  .103 

From  the  Kingdom  o'  Galloway     .           .  .  .  .      1 1 1 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Aunt  Jane's  Little  Cabin      ..         >          .  .  Frontispiece 

«'Is  you  m'ah  wantin*  someone  tuh  wash  ?  "  .  .  .         19 

Monon  stood  there  eyeing  his  master       .  .  .  .        25 

Randolph            .          .          .          .          .  .  .  .        35 

'*  I  cooks  Hollis  some  extry  pones "        .  .  .  .        57 

Polly  softened,  and  leaned  toward  us  .  .  77 

Rose 87 

She  leaned  on  her  little,  sagging  gate        .  .  .  .105 

Salina  Gabrielle            .           .          .           .  .  .  .113 

Peter  the  Great,  was  part  Indian,  part  negro  .  .  .119 


"  Oh  come,   mah  ////'   white  baby, 

Ize  singin*   sojf  an*   low, 
Foh  de  sleep  hant  am  a  waitiri* 

Art  you  sho'/y  wants  tuh  go." 

— From  an  old  Missouri  lullaby. 


,nn 


(•5) 


OLE  ANN. 

'S  you  nrah  wantin'  someone  tub  wash?" 

The  speaker  was  a  tall  and  a  very,  very 
black  woman,  and  she  was  young.  She  led 
by  the  hand  a  little  child,  scantily  clad,  its  kinky  hair 
wrapped  with  innumerable  bits  of  twine. 

She  spoke  to  two  little  girls  who  were  perched  upon 
two  high  gate-posts,  under  the  shadow  of  some  fine  old 
maple  trees.  Children  who  live  in  unfenced  yards  miss 
all  the  fun  of  having  gate-posts  to  perch  on,  a  fence  to 
climb,  a  gate  to  swing  on,  and  certainly  half  the  fun  of 
running  away. 

"We  don't  know,"  said  the  eldest,  as  with  much 
struggling  she  climbed  down,  and  opened  the  gate  to 
let  the  woman  and  child  in.  Around  the  house  they 
went,  together ;  the  two  white  children  eyeing  the  black 
one,  and  all  four  rather  relieved  when  Mother  appeared 
at  the  doorway.  "Is  you  wantin'  some  one  tub  wash?" 


l8  OLE   ANN. 


queried  the  woman;  and  Mother  said  that  she  was. 

The  woman  had  walked  seven  miles  in  search  of 
work,  and  her  home  was  in  Quindaro.  She  said  :  "Ize 
got  lots  ob  chilluns,  an'  dis  heah  one  she  jess  won'  be 
left.  Whar  I  goes,  I  has  tuh  tote  huh." 

"Ole  Ann"  was  duly  engaged,  and  for  many  years 
she  plodded  back  and  forth  ;  coming  on  Monday  morn 
ings,  going  home  on  Wednesday  evenings;  the  little 
child,  Black  Belle,  always  with  her. 

"Ole  Ann"  was  faithfulness  itself,  and  when  we 
asked  her  why  she  always  called  herself  "Ole  Ann"  she 
explained  that  it  had  always  been  "Ole  Ann,"  even 
when  she  was  a  child.  Her  husband's  name  was  Mosley, 
and  he  was  a  little,  weazened,  and  very  badly  freckled 
man.  She  seemed  to  hold  him  in  special  detestation, 
and  when  some  one  asked  her  how  she  came  to  marry 
a  man  whom  she  so  much  despised,  she  said  :  — 

"Mosley,  he's  a  well-diggah  ;  I  nevah  did  see  him  in 
de  day-time;  he  wuz  always  down  wells,  an'  he  co'ted 
me  ob  evenin's.  If  I  had  evah  had  a  right  good 


Is  YOU  M'AH  WANTIN'  SOMEONE  TUH  WASH?" 

(19) 


ANN.  21 

look  at  him,  I  nevah  would  'a  had  him — sho'ley." 
"Ole  Ann''  prospered,  and  bought  a  shackley,  little, 
old  two-wheeled  cart,  and  then  a  little  donkey  whose 
tail  was  very  stubby,  and  whose  coat  looked  moth- 
eaten.  I  am  sure  that  the  donkey  never  had  a  square 
meal,  save  on  the  days  when  he  brought  "Ole  Ann"  in 
and  "fetched"  her  home. 

With  the  advent  of  the  donkey  the  mistress's  woes 
began.  Things  began  to  disappear.  "Ole  Ann"  never 
stole,  but  where  could  the  things  go,  since  they  only 
disappeared  on  Wednesdays?  An  investigation  of  the 
contents  of  the  cart,  one  Wednesday  evening,  revealed 
various  packages  of  tea  and  sugar,  soap,  and  even 
matches.  When  confronted  with  these  evidences  of 
guilt,  "Ole  Ann"  politely  announced  that  she  "Nevah 
stole  in  all  huh  bohn  life" — "she  jess  borried  a  few 
things  foh  tuh  use." 

Her  habit  of  "borrowing"  grew  so  strong  that  the 
family  had  to  part  with  her;  but  she  bore  them  no 
malice,  and  to  this  day  visits  them.  They  are  always 


22  OLE   ANN. 

glad  to  see  her,  but  they  stay  with  her  until  she  is 
ready  to  depart.  Her  children  have  married  and  gone, 
the  city  has  followed  her  into  the  country,  and  the 
little  squatter's  cabin  in  Quindaro  is  to-day  the  home 
of  a  very  well-to-do  negress.  Mosley  is  dead,  and  "Ole 
Ann"  says  "It  do  jess  beat  all  how  a  pusson  kin  miss 
such  a  no-count  niggah." 


onort 


(23) 


MOXON    STOOD    THERE    EYEING    HIS    MASTER. 

(25; 


MONON. 

UT  on  one  of  the  city's  boulevards  you  may 
drive,  your  road  just  skirting  a  lovely 
stretch  of  hills,  until  you  come  to  a  small 


town,  now  a  part  of  the  city — once  three  miles  away. 
This  section  used  to  be  famous  for  its  myriad  bushes 
of  wild  roses,  lovely  beyond  compare  at  blossoming 
time;  there  they  grow  even  now,  all  over  the  banks 
of  the  creeks. 

In  this  suburb  there  were  once  large  mills  and  fac 
tories,  but  steel  rails  have  taken  the  place  of  the  iron 
ones,  and  the  old  mills  are  looked  after  by  a  caretaker 
now.  The  big  houses,  built  for  the  owners,  have  passed 
into  other  hands ;  the  little  fruit  trees  that  they  planted 
are  orchards  now,  and  the  paved  white  boulevard,  with 
its  rows  of  houses,  and  its  swift  electric  cars,  stretches 
over  the  winding  way  where  my  lady  used  to  drive  her 
basket-phaeton  and  cream-colored  ponies,  when  the 
roads  were  good. 

(27) 


28  OLE    ANN. 

Up  in  a  big  white  house  on  the  hill  lived  a  family 
who  liked  the  country  life  and  the  beautiful  park  in 
which  the  house  stood.  As  was  the  custom  in  those 
days,  they  employed  only  negro  servants.  The  colored 
race  is  eminently  a  social  race;  so  the  people  like  to 
work  in  twos  and  threes,  preferring  to  take  smaller 
wages  for  the  sake  of  the  company.  Here,  there  was 
the  cook  and  her  daughter,  some  days  in  the  week  a 
laundress,  and  always  Monon. 

Monon  had  been  in  slavery.  He  was  as  black  as 
ebony,  and  his  hair  was  snow  white.  He  did  not  seem 
old,  for  he  was  a  square,  sturdy  sort  of  a  man,  who 
might  have  borne  burdens  in  his  youth  if  he  had  had  a 
stern  owner,  for  a  lazier  man  than  Monon  never  ex 
isted. 

His  master  always  laid  in  a  store  of  wood  during 
the  summer  for  the  winter's  use,  and  of  course,  wanted 
it  sawed  and  split,  and  put  away  to  dry.  Monon  never 
could  see  the  sense  of  splitting  more  than  enough  for 
immediate  use.  "White  folks,"  he  would  say,  "white 


MONON.  29 

folks  dey  is  so  res'less.  Dey  ain't  Christians,  or  dey 
surtinly  would  know  dat  de  Lawd  diden'  'tend  fob  dem 
tuh  be  providin'  fob  so  many  days  ahead,  foh  it  sho'ley 
am  against  de  Scriptuah." 

"Marse  Charles,"  he  would  say  to  his  master's 
young  son,  "Marse  Charles,  is  you  as  strong  as  me? 
Could  you  lift  and  split  dis  heah  big,  knotty  fellah?" 

Of  course  Marse  Charles  could,  and  did ;  so  that  by 
the  most  adroit  flattery  Monon  often  found  his  tasks 
lightened,  and  sometimes  avoided  them  altogether. 

The  family  owned  a  fine  dog,  a  pretty,  intelligent 
pointer,  "Watch."  In  the  winter,  Watch  always  slept 
in  the  furnace  cellar,  and  one  night  when  her  mistress 
went  to  call  her,  there  lay  the  good  dog,  dead.  There 
was  grief  and  some  tears,  when  Monon  buried  Watch 
the  next  day  up  on  the  hillside  under  the  mulberry 
tree,  where  she  had  caught  a  coon. 

"Poah  Watchie,"  said  Monon.  "Poah  Watchie,  you 
didn'  live  half  long  nuff,  shuah,  an'  I  reckon  you  could 
tell  de  tas'e  ob  poison  now." 


30 


ANN. 


The  night  after  Watch's  burial  there  was  a  gay  com 
pany  of  young  people  in  the  house.  Suddenly  they 
were  startled  by  shouts  and  pistol  shots  outside.  Every 
one  started,  and  the  gentlemen  went  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  all  the  excitement.  A  man  had  been  caught, 
who  was  probably  a  burglar.  He  was  taken,  of  course, 
and  equally  of  course,  only  the  charge  of  vagrancy 
could  be  preferred  against  him,  for  when  first  seen  by 
some  of  the  neighbors,  he  was  standing  peering  into 
the  windows.  There  was  tow  in  his  pockets,  and  there 
was  tow  around  the  house.  He  probably  had  killed 
the  dog,  intending  to  fire  the  house,  knowing  that  there 
would  be  a  chance  for  plunder;  but,  —  "not  proven." 

Next  morning  the  negroes  came  from  their  cabins 
over  the  creek,  Monon  last  of  all. 

"Monon,"  said  his  master,  "you  are  a  nice  man  to 
leave  the  family,  and  not  come  near  when  they  are  in 
such  trouble." 

Monon  slouched  over  against  the  wall  of  the  house, 
and  stood  there  eyeing  his  master. 


MONON.  31 

"I'm  shuah,  sah,  you  knows  all  about  mah  reasons. 
I  heanr  de  trouble  las'  night;  I  hearn'  de  bullets  a 
whis'lin',  an'  a  flyin'  froo  de  air,  an'  I  come  tuh  de 
aidge  ob  de  creek  an'  says  I,  'Monon,  Monon,'  says  I, 
'de  fambly  dey  sho'ley  is  in  trouble,  but  it  won'  be  bes' 
foh  ev'y  one  tuh  get  kill'  or  woun'ed;  so  Monon  you 
jess  go  home  an'  go  tuh  bed,  an'  den  go  ovah  in  de 
mawnin'  when  de  warfare's  ovah,  sah.  Jess  wait  till 
de  warfare's  ovah.'  " 


Da?  Before 


(33) 


RANDOLPH. 

(25) 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY. 

HE  minister  was  a  new  arrival  in  the  town, 
and  was  taking  count  of  all  those  who 
were  to  be  his  helpers  in  the  work  he  was 
to  do. 

Among  them  was  the  sexton  of  the  church.  He  was 
old,  and  had  seen  ministers  come  and  go — bishops 
too — and  yet  he  stayed  on  until  he  was  an  integral 
part  of  the  church,  and  no  one  thought  of  St.  John's 
without  him. 

And  now  Randolph  was  making  his  bow  to  the  new 
minister,  and  saying  to  himself, — "Dis  heah  is  shuah 
de  right  sort  foh  St.  John's.  He  looks  like  he  got 
sense,  an'  'ligion,  an'  style.  Folks  don'  of 'en  git  dat 
com-be-nation ;  in  gin'ally  if  you  git  style  (dat  is, 
stylish  nuff  to  do)  you  don'  git  much  'ligion;  an' 
mos'ly  de  ve'y  'ligious  ones  looks  kin'  o'  down  at  de 
heels." 

(37) 


38  OLE    ANN. 

And  while  Randolph  eyes  the  minister,  we  may  look 
at  Randolph.  He  is  tall  and  slim,  with  snow-white 
hair,  and  the  blackest  of  skins.  Dignified,  gentle-man 
nered  and  slow  of  speech;  his  garments  spotless,  and 
his  linen  white;  Randolph  himself  looks  as  though  he 
were  used  to  the  company  of  gentlemen. 

"Yas  sah!  Yas  sah!  youah  ordahs  is  what  I  wants, 
sah !  Clutch  is  in  gin'al  on  Sunday  mohnins,  an'  eve- 
nin's,  an'  funerals,  an'  weddin's.  No,  sah!  de  ladies 
dey  don'  meet  none;  leastways  dey  don'  meet  heah. 
No,  sah!  dey  ain't  no  clubs — dis  heah  is  jess  a  chu'ch 
foh  de  fust  famblies." 

Randolph's  instinct  told  him  that  the  new  minister 
belonged  with  the  first  families,  but  he  did  not  know 
that  the  new  minister  believed  that  "birth  conveys  no 
merit,  but  much  duty  to  its  inheritor."  If  he  had 
known  that,  he  might  have  resigned  his  work  then 
and  there. 

"Yas,  sah!  Yas  sah!  dis  heah  is  a  fine  ole  town, 
shuah  nuff .  We  don'  has  no  new-fangled  notions ;  we 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY.  39 

don'  has  no  ways  ob  yesterday;  we  is  folks  fum  de 
day  befoah  yesterday,  we  is, — de  day  befoah  yester 
day,  sah !"  And  the  old  man  quietly  chuckled  to  him 
self. 

And  so  the  minister  named  his  new  abiding  place 
"The  Day  before  Yesterday;"  and  that  name  will  do 
for  us  to  call  it  by,  although  it  would  not  enable  one 
to  find  the  quaint  old  town  on  the  map. 

"Day  before  Yesterday"  is  in  one  of  the  greatest 
states  of  the  Union,  and  while  the  Virginia  cavalier 
has  given  it  grace  and  charm,  it  is  not  in  Virginia,  and 
while  New  England  has  lent  it  intellectual  power,  it 
is  not  in  New  England. 

Shut  in  by  the  mountains  and  hills,  it  is  one  of  the 
fairest  spots  in  America.  The  valleys  beyond  it  "stand 
so  thick  with  corn  that  they  laugh  and  sing."  Its  sun- 
crowned  mountain-tops  throw  long  violet  shadows  in 
the  springtime  over  dogwood  and  red-bud  trees,  the 
spirea  and  the  Cherokee  rose;  its  myriad  orchards  are 
rose-and-white  with  bloom;  the  red-bird  never  for- 


4o  OLE  ANN. 

sakes  it,  even  in  winter;  and  in  summer  the  meadow 
lark's  violin-note  voices  its  beauty. 

Small  wonder  then  that  "The  Day  before  Yester 
day,"  should  have  caught  the  eye  and  won  the  love 
of  men,  two  hundred  years  agone,  so  that  they  planted 
homes  there  in  which  their  descendants  live  today. 

The  town  is  built  about  a  square,  on  one  side  of 
which  stands  a  beautiful  court-house.  On  one  day 
each  year  the  court-house  is  deserted — the  day  the  quail 
season  opens.  Then  judge  and  jury,  lawyers  and 
clients,  adjourn  to  the  fields  for  their  annual  hunt. 
North  and  south  run  the  long  avenues,  beautifully 
shaded  with  giant  elms  and  bordered  by  attractive  old 
houses. 

No  one  hurries  on  the  streets.  "Time  was  made  for 
slaves,"  and  they  are  a  free  people  here.  The  women 
are  so  pretty;  they  take  time  to  share  their  lives,  as 
they  share  their  flowers,  with  other  people — and  they 
make  calls  in  the  morning. 

Fortunately,  Randolph's  estimate  of  the  new  min- 


THE  DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY.  4! 

ister  was  the  right  one,  and  although  he  still  serves 
the  people — St.  John's  is  no  longer  "jess  a  chu'ch  foh 
de  fust  famblies."  They  still  go  there,  it  is  true;  but 
the  love  that  was  in  their  hearts,  has  found  expression 
in  the  larger  ideals  that  mark  their  church's  work  to 
day.  The  church  has  come  to  be  known  as  "The 
church  that  takes  care  of  the  poor."  Its  white-robed 
choir,  and  its  boys'  clubs,  its  St.  Andrews'  Brother 
hood  and  its  Girls'  Friendly  Society,  are  all  doing  their 
share  in  its  work. 

The  minister  "had  sense."  He  knew  that  the  gentle 
folk  had  a  right  to  be  considered ;  he  upset  no  tradi 
tions,  but  in  the  spirit  of  his  Master  he  grafted  onto 
the  Tree  of  Life,  that  he  found  there,  the  fair  fruitage 
of  a  new  day. 

And  Randolph?  Well  he  never  quite  knew  how  it 
all  happened,  but  after  the  minister  had  been  there 
about  three  years,  and  daily  Lenten  services  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  old  custom — a  service  on  Wednesday 
nights — Randolph,  who  was  dusting  the  church,  was 


42  OLE    ANN. 

heard  to  remark, — "I  cla'r  to  goodness,  I  does ;  I  wish 
dis  heah  long  meetin'  dey  call  Lint  'ud  bus'  up." 

Later  when  the  first  families  had  been  added  to  by 
many  newcomers,  he  said : 

"I  don'  know  what's  gittin'  dis  heah  place;  Ize  jess 
woh  tuh  a  frazzle  wid  work;  St.  John  hisse'f  nevah 
'tended  tuh  has  no  such  goin's  on, — Clubs  an'  dese 
heah  Frien'lys,  an'  people  wid  all  kin's  ob  'ligion,  an' 
no  'ligion  't  all,  a-comin'  heah  an'  sittin'  in  ouah  bes' 
pews.  Foah  in  a  pew's  too  many,  any  how,  an'  de  peo 
ple  in  de  back  seat  can't  no  ways  see  de  preacher  now." 

When  the  call  "to  arms"  came  for  the  last  war,  and 
the  bells  rang  out  at  night  summoning  the  soldiers  to 
the  armory,  St.  John's  bell  was  one  of  the  first  to 
sound.  How  one's  heart  beat,  and  the  tears  came,  as 
one  heard  the  young  feet  hurrying  along  the  pave 
ments,  and  knew  of  the  eager  lads  who  were  respond 
ing  to  that  call.  There  were  sober  faces  next  day, 
when  the  regiment  marched  away,  and  every  soldier 
raised  his  hat  as  he  passed  St.  John's,  for  there  hung 


THE  DAY  BEFORE:  YESTERDAY.  43 

the  Stars  and  Stripes  where  Randolph  had  put  them 
in  the  early  dawn. 

On  that  memorable  day  when  the  news  flashed  across 
the  seas  that  the  power  of  Spain  was  broken,  and  that 
her  ships  lay  crushed  and  helpless  off  the  coast  near 
Santiago  de  Cuba,  the  bell  of  St.  John's  was  silent. 
The  minister  sent  for  Randolph  and  bade  him  ring 
it,  and  ring  it  long  and  loud.  As  he  went  toward  the 
church  he  was  overheard  muttering,  and  saying  to  him 
self,  "I  clar  tuh  goodness!  If  dey's  any  more  ob  dese 
heah  victories,  Ize  gwine  tuh  resign  mah  job.  I  mos' 
broke  mah  back,  ringin'  dat  ole  bell  when  Gin'l  Lee 
surrender'." 

Randolph  was  born  in  slavery,  but  he  had  loved  his 
people.  "Gin'l  Tayloe,  sah!  wuz  de  fines'  dat  evah 
lived" — he  would  say.  "Me  an'  him  wuz  jess  ob  an 
age.  Can't  recollec'  livin'  widout  him.  His  motha 
she  died  when  he  wuz  two  yeahs  old,  an'  mah  mammy 
she's  his  mammy.  I  always  gits  what  he  done  leff, 
only  de  beatin's — I  gits  dem  fust. 


44  OLE  ANN. 

"When  we  wuz  young  men,  we  used  tuh  have  gret 
times,  we  used  tuh  go  visitin'  tuh  otha  plantations  an' 
sometimes  we  went  tuh  de  Springs. 

"De  Springs  wuz  otiah  favorite  place;  an  dey  sho'- 
ly  wuz  fine.  Dey  wuz  owned  by  Mistah  Bell's  fambly 
from  New  Orleans.  De  fust  time  mah  young  Mastah 
Tayloe  an'  young  Mastah  Go'don  goes  tuh  de  Springs, 
wuz  one  July.  We  travels  on  horse-back;  de  young 
gen'lemen,  an'  Abram,  Mastah  Go'don's  boy,  an'  me. 
By  an'  by  we  comes  'bout  ten  miles  f'um  de  Springs, 
an  it's  gittin'  late,  an'  it's  dark  early,  in  de  mountains. 
We-all's  expectin'  to  meet  up  wid  Majah  King's  fam 
bly,  at  de  White  tavern;  an'  de  young  gen'lemen  dey 
dressed  deyselves  extry  fine  at  de  las'  place.  Dey  been 
lots  ob  rains,  an'  de  creeks  wuz  high,  an'  we  had  tuh 
ford  one  creek  dat  like  tuh  swamped  us  all,  an'  it  wuz 
nigh  dark;  so  you  coulden'  tell  a  black  man  f'um  a 
white  man. 

"De  young  gen'lemen  dey  wuz  both  wearin'  lavender 
trousahs,  an'  mah  young  mastah  he  got  off  his  horse, 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY.  45 

an'  he  say,  "Go'don,  I'm  gohr  to  take  off  mah  trousahs 
befo'  I  fords  dis  heah  nex'  creek."  Mastah  Go'don 
he  say  he  do  de  same,  an'  dey  done  so. 

"We-all  mounts  an'  rides  fo'ard — dey  has  dey  knees 
high  up, — an'  pretty  soon  we  hear  dat  creek.  De  horses 
steps  in  dat  gingerly,  an' — it  aint  even  reached  a  foot 
high. 

"Well,  we  done  laugh  consid'able,  but  Marse  Tayloe 
he  feel  all  right  nex'  day  aftah  he  git  his  juleps,  an' 
seen  Miss  Betty  King. 

"When  we  reaches  de  Springs,  real  times  begins  fob 
shuah.  De  horses  prances  in  froo  de  big  gates  an' 
up  de  circ'lar  drives,  an'  we-all  follows  Majah  King's 
cahige.  De  gret  big  hotel  stan's  dere  in  de  mohnin 
sun — jess  as  pink  as  a  rose — an'  de  gret  pillahs  is  so 
white  dat  dey  makes  you  wink  you  eyes. 

"De  galleries  has  de  Nolands,  an'  de  Lucketts,  de 
Carters,  de  Creels,  an'  de  Hairstons,  an'  all  de  quality 
folks  on  it,  an'  dey  comes  a  troopin  out  tuh  see  ouah 
party.  Dere  WTUZ  a  row  ob  black  boys  tuh  take  de 


46  OLE  ANN. 


things,  an'  ten'  ouah  horses.  An'  de  cahiges  wuz  taken 
tuh  de  quartahs. 

"You  nevah  see  a  place  like  dat  no  moah.  De  bricks 
wuz  made  on  de  groun's,  an'  de  buildin's  wuz  put  up 
by  hundreds  ob  slaves.  De  bes'  in  de  South  come  heah 
ev'y  summah,  drivin'  miles  an'  miles,  an  dey  wuz 
room  fuh  ev'y  one  in  de  big  house,  or  in  Georgia  row, 
which  is  de  cottages. 

"Come  evenin'  I  fixes  Marse  Tayloe — an'  he  looks 
handsome,  shuah!  De  dinin'  room  is  big  nuf  foh  a 
thousan'  people,  an'  Marse  Tayloe  an'  Marse  Go'don 
dey  has  a  table  neah  Majah  King's,  an'  de  meals  dey 
gets u-umph ! 

"Aftah  suppah  de  moon  comes  up,  an'  de  ban'  plays 
in  de  big  ballroom.  Dat  wuz  a  sight,  shuah !  De 
musicianers  is  all  black  men,  an'  dey  sits  in  de  gal 
lery,  an'  de  gen'lemen  dances  wid  de  young  ladies,  an' 
pays  dey  co't  tuh  de  ladies  as  don'  care  foh  dancin,. 

Nex'  mohnin'  I  'tends  Marse  Tayloe  tuh  de  pool,  foh 
tuh  swim.  Dat  pool's  in  a  brick  house,  open  at  de  top. 


THE)  DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY.  47 

Dey  is  a  high  wall  in  de  middle;  an'  on  one  side  is  de 
ladies'  pool,  an'  de  otha  side  is  de  men's.  Dey  all  likes 
tuh  swim  in  dat  green  watah,  an  when  Marse  Tayloe 
comes  out,  he  says  he  feels  like  he's  five  yeahs  youngah. 

"When  we  comes  out,  dere  in  front  ob  de  big  house 
is  all  de  little  tables,  an'  ev'y  one  sitting  an'  drinkin' 
cley  juleps.  You  ain't  nevah  seen  a  real  julep  sah ! 
if  you  ain't  seen  de  ones  dat  Moses  makes.  When  he 
mixes  it  he  looks  dat  solemn,  you  thinks  he's  makin'  de 
woiT,  an1  when  you  drink  it  you  thinks  you  owns  de 
woiT — leastways  you  ain't  got  no  quarrel  wid  anyone. 

"Mint  juleps!  Don'  ask  me  no  moah  'bout  dem  sah. 
I  kin  see  de  fross  on  de  glass  yit;  I  kin  smell  dat 
mint — I  kin  see  clem  houn's  lyin'  in  de  sun — no  sah! 
no  sah !  dem  days  is  gone. 

'  'Bout  three  yeahs  ago,  Marse  Tayloe  an'  me  we 
done  went  back.  De  Bell  fambly  is  still  ownin'  de 
Springs,  an'  Marse  Tayloe  he  done  say  he  got  tuh  see 
it  once  moah.  We  goes  on  de  cars  dis  time,  an'  git 
cindahs  in  ouah  eyes,  an'  we  go  so  fas'  you  can't  see 


48  OLE  ANN. 

nuffin  't  all ;  an'  by  an'  by  we  come  tuh  de  station  where 
de  coach  meets  us.  It's  one  ob  de  same  ole  coaches,  an' 
Marse  Tayloe  an'  me  dim'  up  on  top  an'  take  ouah 
seats,  an'  de  driver  blows  his  hohn,  an'  we  started. 
But  dey  ain't  no  boys  a  ridin'  alongside,  an'  dey  ain't 
no  Nolands,  or  Carters  on  de  road.  When  we  comes 
tuh  de  ole  White  tavern,  where  we  met  Miss  Betty 
King,  de  Gin'l  he  looks  de  otha  way.  De  galleries  is 
fallin'  down  an'  poah  white  trash  lives  dere. 

"When  we  gits  tuh  de  Springs,  Mistah  Bell  he  comes 
tuh  meet  us,  an'  he  wuz  dat  rejoicin'.  Marse  Tayloe 
he  say,  'Kin  he  have  his  ole  quartans?' — an'  Mistah 
Bell  he  say, — 'Suttinly;  he  kin  have  any  place  he 
wants' ;  an'  a  black  boy  comes  wid  a  big  box  o'  brass 
keys,  an'  we  goes  tuh  de  room.  Mistah  Bell  he  search 
froo  de  box,  an'  try  de  keys  till  he  fin'  one  dat  opens 
de  doah,  an'  Marse  Tayloe  he  goes  in.  De  curtains 
is  de  same,  an'  de  bed  is  de  same.  Dey's  a  fiah  laid  in 
de  fiah  place,  an'  de  ole  green  rug  is  on  de  floah. 

"Marse  Tayloe  he  say — 'Come  back  in  an  ouah,  Ran 
dolph/  an'  he  shet  de  doah. 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY.  49 

"Dat  night,  when  I  puts  out  his  candle,  he  says : — 
'Randolph,  we  takes  de  stage  back  tomorrow.  Fcan't 
stan'  it  heah : — de  place  is  full  ob  ghostses.' 

"De  nex'  night  we  is  waiting  at  de  station  foh  ouah 
train : — Marse  Tayloe  says  he  gwine  tub  Norfolk  tuh 
see  de  crepe  myrtle  in  bloom : — an'  'long  come  a  big 
train.  De  conductah  hops  off,  an'  one  ob  clem  potahs  he 
sets  out  his  little  step,  an'  don'  no  one  git  on.  De  con 
ductah  he  hollahs  out — 'Whar's  youah  passengers?'  an' 
de  agint,  who  is  a  membah  ob  an  ole  fambly,  he  comes 
out  an'  say  'dey  ain't  no  passengers  foh  dat  train.' 
'What  in  de  debbil  you  flag  dis  heah  train  foh?'  says 
de  conductah.  'I  ain't  flag  dis  train,'  says  de  agint, 
'dat  flag,  sah,  is  hung  out  foh  de  nex'  train.' 

"Marse  Tayloe  an'  me  ain't  been  back  no  moah,  an' 
we  tryin'  tuh  forgit  dat  time.  It's  dis  heah  way: — 
Ef  you  stays  in  de  place,  you  don'  notice  de  diffunce, 
but  when  de  yeahs  is  long  between  times,  you'd  bet- 
tah  not  go  back." 

Now  if  there  is  one  thing  above  another  that  the  old 


5O  OLE    ANN. 

time  negro  adores  it  is  "de  quality,"  as  he  designates 
people  of  birth  and  breeding.  More  often  than  not, 
he  has  been  reared  by  gentlefolk,  and  much  that  is 
essential  to  real  culture  he  has  learned  both  by  precept 
and  example.  He  is  a  discerning  person,  and  he  had 
rather  serve  "de  quality"  in  poverty,  than  the  newly 
rich. 

General  Tayloe  once  sent  Randolph  to  dig  some  sod 
on  a  common,  opposite  the  house  of  one  of  "Day  before 
Yesterday's"  prosperous  new  men.  While  he  was  dig 
ging,  the  owner  of  the  house  came  out  and  expostu 
lated  with  him.  Randolph's  cart  was  about  filled,  and 
he  drove  quietly  away,  making  no  answer. 

In  an  hour  he  was  back  again,  digging  more  sod. 
Again  the  owner  of  the  house  expostulated — this  time 
pretty  vigorously — and  Randolph  said : 

"Dis  heah  sod,  sah,  dis  heah  sod's  foh  Gin'l  Tay 
loe." 

"General    Tayloe!"    answered    the    man — "General 


THE  DAY   BEFORE  YESTERDAY.  5! 

Tayloe !  Well,  who's  General  Tayloe,  anyhow  ?  Ain't 
he  made  of  dirt,  same  as  the  rest  of  us?" 

"Well,  yes  sah!  he  is,  I  reckon — but  you  know  dey's 
odds  in  dirt,  sah !  odds  in  dirt." 

One  day  as  the  minister  was  going  out  to  begin  a 
round  of  parish  calls,  he  stopped  to  ask  Randolph 
where  the  Stuart  family  lived. 

"It's  on  de  aidge  ob  town,  sah ;  an'  you  can't  mis 
take  de  place.  You  drives  out  de  pike  till  you  comes 
tuh  a  big  red  gate  in  a  stone  wall.  When  you  goes  in 
you  can  see  de  fambly  bury  in'  groun',  an'  de  view 
f'um  de  hill  is  like  de  kingdoms  ob  de  yearth.  Dey 
ain't  many  ob  dat  fambly  leff  now,  sah!  jess  six — an' 
Miss  Ann,  she's  queah.  She  don'  care  nothin'  much 
'bout  fambly;  she  says  she'd  ruther  be  common  folks 
goin'  up,  dan  a  'ristocrat  goin'  to  seed." 

There  came  a  day  when  the  mortal  body  of  one  of 
the  old  citizens-  of  "Day  before  Yesterday"  was  laid 
to  rest  on  the  "Hill"  above  the  town.  The  "Hill"  is 


52  OIvE    ANN. 

in  very  truth,  God's  acre, —  beautifully  cared  for  and 
kept,  as  the  resting  place  of  the  dead  should  be.  Ran 
dolph  had  carried  his  burden  of  flowers  to  the  new 
made  grave,  and  on  his  way  home  stopped  at  the  rec 
tory  for  his  orders  for  the  next  day's  duties. 

"We  gwine  tuh  miss  dat  Marse  John,  sah!  Dey 
ain't  nevah  been  many  like  him.  Dey  ain't  har'ly  any 
leff.  He's  de  kin'  ob  a  gen'leman  dat  had  a  real  lady 
foh  his  motha,  an'  he  wuz  a  pillah  in  de  church.  Now, 
mostly  dese  heah  's  men  dats  jess  made  derselves,  dey 
ain't  no  pillahs  in  de  church.  Dey  don'  go  tuh  de  co'ts 
ob  de  Lord's  house  't  all,  dey  is  jess  buttresses  sah !  an' 
supports  it  f'um  de  outside. 

At  one  time  "Day  before  Yesterday"  decided  to  have 
a  Rummage  Sale  and  apply  the  proceeds  to  its  little 
City  Hospital.  A  large  store  room  was  rented,  and 
the  town  thoroughly  canvassed  for  "rummage." 
Pretty  girls  and  prettier  matrons  were  the  saleswomen, 
and  the  relic  hunter  who  went  early  was  in  luck,  for 
he  found  some  fine  old  brasses  and  many  another 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  YESTERDAY.          53 

treasure.  Those  who  went  later,  found  that  the  oldest 
things  there  were  card-board  mottoes  of  "God  Bless 
our  Home/'  and  a  lot  of  impossible,  black  walnut, 
furniture. 

Now,  the  minister  had  given  some  clothes  and  old 
hats  and  shoes  for  the  sale,  and  Randolph  had  packed 
them  in  a  basket  to  carry  to  the  store  room.  He  dis 
covered  in  the  lot  a  long  since  discarded  dress  suit,  of 
ancient  cut. 

"Dey  ain't  no  use  takin'  dis  heah  tuh  de  sale,  sah! 
you  lemme  sell  it  tuh  a  waitah,  an'  gimme  half  de 
money." 

"All  right,"  said  the  minister,  "you  may  do  that, 
and  we  will  give  the  other  half  to  the  building  fund  for 
St.  Augustine's  (the  mission  for  the  colored  people). 

A  year  went  by  and  no  funds  were  brought  to  the 
minister.  Randolph  explaining  that  "De  waitahs  is  all 
supplied  jess  now,  sah !"  and  at  the  end  of  the  second 
year  his  story  was  the  same.  Three  years,  and  then 
Randolph  offers  to  buy  the  suit  himself,  and  when  the 


54  OLE    ANN. 

minister  gave  it  to  him  he  said,  "Thank  you  sah!  thank 
you.  Now  Lucy  she'll  be  dat  happy !  You  see,  sah, 
Ize  been  married  twice.  It's  natch'erl  fob  me  tub  go 
fust  an'  give  Lucy  anothah  chance.  She  done  plan  de 
fines'  funeral  fob  me.  She  jess  set  huh  heart  on  seein' 
me  laid  out  in  dat  suit,  an'  whar  de  trousahs  is  thin 
she  done  reseated  clem.  She  says,  "  't  aint  gwine  tub 
show  no-how  in  a  coffin,  an'  she  say  she  knows  you 
don'  want  'em  back  now  'cause  dey's  done  been  had 
moff-balls  in  dem." 

May  the  day  be  far  distant  before  Lucy  has  "another 
chance" — for  the  conditions  that  molded  men  like  Ran 
dolph  are  gone,  and  the  new  day  has  not  yet  dawned 
when  the  man  in  life's  lowly  station  considers  it  a  mark 
of  self-respect  to  be  "mannerly." 


Offer  'TrecHom  Came 


(55) 


I    COOKS    HOLLIS    SOME    EXTRY    PONES." 

(57) 


AFTER  FREEDOM  CAME. 

T  is  the  time  of  new  life;  the  time  when 
somewhere  in  the  wood  the  mocking  bird 
sings  his  "dropping  song" — his  ecstasy  of 
love — and  to  be  alive  is  joy;  to  be  young  and  strong, 
is  bliss  unspeakable. 

Just  close  your  eyes  for  a  moment.  It  is  nearly 
dark — the  evening  time — the  children  have  been  play 
ing  down  in  the  orchard,  and  are  coming  slowly  home ; 
the  old  Virginia  rail-fence  is  overgrown  with  creepers, 
trumpet-vine  and  ivy;  some  sleepy  birds  are  twitter 
ing;  the  west  is  touched  with  rosy  shadows;  the  or 
chard  is  pink  with  bloom,  and  up  through  the  deepen 
ing  twilight  come  the  children,  sleepy,  happy  little 
children,  to  be  petted,  and  by  and  by  tucked  in  their 
white  beds  by  Georgie. 

Her  labor  of  love  done,  Georgie  comes  back  to  the 
gallery  to  sit  alone,  her  face  hidden  in  the  shadow  of 

(59) 


60  OLE    ANN. 

the  night,  as  her  life  had  been  in  the  shadow  of  slavery. 

She  is  old  now,  and  the  color  of  time-stained  and 
much  polished  mahogany.  For  twenty  years  she  has 
served  my  people,  and  yet  I  never  knew  her  story  until 
that  evening  when  I  came  out  on  the  gallery  to  sit  and 
watch  the  moon  come  up,  and  Georgie  sang  old  planta 
tion  lullabys  to  me,  as  she  had  done  when  I  was  a 
little  child. 

"How  old  are  you  Georgie?"  I  queried,  wondering 
at  the  gentle  way  in  which  time  had  treated  her,  "how 
old  are  you?" 

"I  can't  jess  rightly  remembah  what  to  assert  'bout 
dat,  honey.  You-all  know^s  I  wuz  bohn  in  Frankfort, 
Kentucky,  an'  I  done  live  with  mah  ole  Mastah  an' 
Miss,  an'  dey-all's  chillun  in  a  gret  big  house,  an'  dere 
wuz  a  big  garden  an'  a  high  stone  wall  roun'  it.  I 
helped  care  foh  de  chilluns,  an'  I  wuz  a  right  smaht 
slip  ob  a  girl  when  de  soldiers  went  tub  de  Mexican 
wah. 

"De  ban'  it  would  play  an'  de  soldiers  dey  would 


AFTER  FREEDOM  CAME.  6l 

march  froo  dose  Frankfort  streets  an'  den  Georgie 
diden'  min'  no  chilluns.  Me  an'  young  Marse  Willie 
we  jess  slip  outen  de  big  iron  gate:  ole  Miss  ain't 
gwine  tuh  say  nothin'  tub  \ve-all;  we  goes  tub  de 
square  an'  climbs  on  de  big  wall,  dat's  wide  nuff  on  top 
fob  tub  drive  a  team  ob  horses  roun'  an'  dere  we  sits 
an'  watches  dem  soldiers  an'  hears  de  ban's  play. 

"Den  nex'  thing  I  knows,  mah  young  Miss  Belle, 
she  done  marries  Eldah  Morgan's  son,  an'  dey  moves 
off  tuh  Missouri,  like  heaps  ob  young  Kentucky  folks 
done  in  dose  days,  an'  I  wuz  one  ob  de  weddiir  presents 
dat  huh  fatha  done  give  tuh  huh. 

"Miss  Belle's  husband  wuz  a  preacher,  but  he  wan't 
none  ob  youah  poah  kind.  His  fatha  give  him  a  fine 
plantation  neah  Independence,  an'  plenty  slaves  fob  tuh 
work  it,  an'  Miss  Belle  she  done  manage  de  whole 
plantation  when  he  wuz  off  tuh  de  Quarterlies. 

"Eldah  Morgan  wuz  one  ob  de  leadahs  in  dose  parts, 
an'  dey-alls  house  wuz  gret,  fob  bein'  full  ob  company. 

"I  kin  jess  shet  mah  eyes  now  an'  see  dat  gret  big 


62  OIvE    ANN. 


white  house,  an'  galleries  'cross  de  back,  an'  big  pillahs 
in  de  front.  Dat  house  diden'  have  ary  little  no-count 
rooms  in  it.  No,  mam,  dey  wuz  big  high  ceilin's  an' 
gret  big  rooms.  De  parloh  wuz  lovely  in  de  early 
summah  mohnins;  we  used  to  shet  doun  de  blin's 
(Venity  blin's,  Miss  Belle  done  called  dem)  an'  put 
big  bunches  o'  sparrowgrass  tops  in  de  fiah  place,  an' 
it  wuz  dat  cool  an'  lovely  it  was  fitten  fob  tub  res'  an 
angel  in. 

"Miss  Belle  she  wuz  a  big  woman  with  de  blackes' 
hair  an'  de  blackes'  eyes,  an'  she  stan  so  straight  no 
darkey  evah  wait  fob  huh  tub  give  ordabs  de  secon' 
time.  She  always  woah  white  dresses  in  de  summah 
time,  an1  she  jess  remin'  me  ob  a  picture,  though  I  don' 
jess  rightly  remembah  whar  I  seen  de  picture." 

"Well,  evenin's  we-all  culluds  used  tub  go  tub  de 
neighbor-in'  plantations.  We  got  permission,  but  if 
we  wuz  out  aftah  ouahs  an'  wuz  caught,  dey  wuzent 
one  ob  us  dat  'scaped  a  beatin'.  Lan'  o'  goodness! 
don't  I  wish  dem  days  wuz  back.  Fiddlin'  ;  young 


AFTER  FREEDOM  CAME.  63 

feet  an'  ole  feet  dancin',  singin',  an'  ole  Marse  givin' 
we-all  ouah  vittles. 

"Me  and  Hollis  wuz  de  Happies'  niggahs  in  de  coun 
try,  dem  days.  Hollis  wuz  owned  on  de  McCoy  plan 
tation,  de  nex'  place  tuh  ouahs,  an'  when  Miss  Belle 
she  done  fin'  out  dat  de  reason  dat  I  ain't  put  no  salt 
in  de  cohn  bread  is  'cause  I  wuz  thinkin'  ob  Hollis,  she 
makes  up  her  min'  dat  she  got  tuh  own  him  too.  She 
say  she  can't  spar'  me  nohow,  an'  Mistah  McCoy  he 
say  he  ain't  gwine  tuh  sell  Hollis,  but  he'd  trade  him 
fuh  ouah  team  ob  big  white  mules. 

"When  I  hearn  dat,  I  wuz  plum'  'stracted,  for  Eldah 
Morgan  set  moah  stoah  by  dem  mules  dan  any  otha  ob 
his  teams,  an'  Miss  Belle  she  wuzent  shuah,  but  she 
diden'  urge  Marse  Morgan.  She  jess  put  on  huh  pret 
ties'  dress,  wid  dem  big  flowin'  sleeves,  an'  de  gret  big 
collah  dat  showed  huh  white  throat,  an'  she  says  tuh 
me,  'Georgie  don'  forgit  de  salt  tonight.' 

"I  jes  woah  myself  tuh  a  frazzle,  'bout  dat  suppah. 
Cooked  Marse  Morgan's  hominy  so  it  looked  like  gret 


64  OLE    ANN. 

big,  white  snow-flakes,  an'   fried  de  chicken — umph ! 

"Marse  Morgan  he  wuz  powerful  set,  if  he  wuz 
'lowed  tuh  say ;  so  Miss  Belle  she  use  tuh  talk  dat 
sweet  dat  he'd  think  he  wuz  as  smaht  as  Solomon,  an' 
den  Miss  Belle  she'd  git  what  she  wanted,  an'  he'd 
nevah  know  de  difFuence. 

"Me  an'  Hollis  would  agreed  bettah  if  I  done  dat, 
but  Ian' !  niggahs  ain't  got  de  patience,  an'  'sides,  when 
I  had  mah  own  way  I  wanted  Hollis  tuh  know  it.  Yes, 
I  married  Hollis.  Miss  Belle  she  got  Marse  Morgan 
tuh  trade  dem  mules  foh  him,  an'  his  ole  Marse  an' 
Miss  come  tuh  de  weddin'  at  ouah  place.  Miss  Belle, 
she  give  me  a  new  dress  an'  a  white  apron,  an'  Hollis' 
mastah  give  him  some  new  clothes  foh  tuh  weah,  an' 
we's  married  in  de  big  parloh.  All  de  niggahs  had  a 
holiday  dat  evenin'  an'  down  in  de  quartahs  dey  wuz 
a  dance  an'  a  possum  suppah. 

"I  had  tuh  cook  de  white  folks  suppah,  an'  all  de 
gen'lemen  give  me  money  an'  tobacco.  De  kitchen  wuz 
'way  off  f'um  de  big  house,  but  when  de  suppah  wuz 


AFTER  FREEDOM   CAME.  65 

ready,  a  row  ob  pickanninies  use  tub  stan'  an'  pass  de 
dishes  'long  quick,  an'  den  John  pass  dem  roun'  de 
table,  while  Abram  wave  de  peacock  brush  tub  keep 
off  de  flies. 

"Well !  my  chilluns  dey  wuz  growin'  up  side  by  side 
with  Miss  Belle's  chillun,  when  freedom  come.  Free 
dom  jess  set  Hollis  plum  crazy.  He  diden'  wait  fob 
nothin'  but  jess  lit  out  tub  see  how  it  feels — when  he 
can  go  an'  no  one  can  call  him  back. 

"Dat  freedom  ain't  no  glory  tub  me,  when  de  raidahs 
come  along  an'  buhn  ouah  ole  home  an'  kill  ole  Marse 
fob  'fendin  ob  his  own.  Both  sides  dey  jess  sent  all 
kinds  ob  poah  white  trash  tub  de  bordah  country,  an'  I 
like  tub  eat  mah  heart  out  when  ole  Marse  come  from 
Frankfort,  tub  see  Miss  Belle,  an'  found  huh  livin'  in 
de  ca'hige  house. 

"Ole  Marse  he  tried  to  'suade  Miss  Belle  tub  go 
'long  home  with  him,  but  Ian'  no!  she  say  she  gwine 
tub  stay  whar  Elder  Morgan  fix  huh  home,  an'  thar 

she  staid. 
E 


66  OLE    ANN. 

"Hollis  he  done  move  off  tuh  Quindaro  an'  by  an' 
by  he  gits  a  little  patch  ob  foah  acres,  an'  me  an'  cle 
chilluns  go  tuh  live  with  him. 

"Come  along  yeahs  an'  yeahs,  an'  I  ain't  evah  seen 
mah  own  white  folks,  an'  pears  like  I  jess  git  a  misery 
in  mah  bres'  wantin'  mah  Miss  Belle,  an'  so  I  jess  up 
an'  tells  Hollis,  Ize  gwine  out  tuh  Independence  an' 
hunt  up  mah  white  people. 

"I  cooks  Hollis  some  extry  pones  an'  beats  all  de 
chilluns,  to  make  'em  behave  while  Ize  away,  an'  den 
me  an'  Mandy  an'  de  baby,  we  started  off.  I  diden' 
put  much  in  mah  basket,  foh  I  'lowed  Miss  Belle  might 
have  somethin'  tuh  give  we-all  when  we  starts  home. 
We  taken  de  train  tuh  Independence,  an'  when  we 
comes  dere  we  starts  out  foh  tuh  walk.  Well !  de 
place  is  changed  so  I  can't  tell  nothin'  'bout  whar  Ize 
gwine.  I  wuz  jess  shuah  de  conductah  made  a  mistake, 
an'  put  me  off  at  de  wrong  place,  an'  so  I  asks  some 
one  if  dis  heah  place  is  Independence.  Dey  says : 
'Yes,  shuah  it  is/  an'  den  dey  told  me  dat  de  McCoy's 


AFTER  FREEDOM  CAME.  6/ 

place  wuz  in  de  town  now,  an'  I  fin's  it  after  a  while. 
My  young  Marse  Willie — he's  growed  up  an'  married 
now — an'  Miss  Belle  she's  livin'  with  him.  I  come 
roun'  de  house  an'  dey-alls  sittin'  on  de  gallery,  an' 
one  ob  de  chilluns  calls  out,  'Howdy!  aunty,  what  you 
want?'  Dey's  all  dere;  Miss  Belle  an'  all,  an'  not 
one  ob  dem  knows  me.  I  jess  stood  a  lookin'  an'  pretty 
soon  mah  young  Marse  Willie  jumps  up  an'  shouts 
out,  'Its  Georgie !  Its  mah  ole  mammy,  shuah.' 

"Miss  Belle  she  taken  me  into  de  kitchen  an'  gives 
me  an'  de  chilluns  ouah  suppah.  De  chilluns  dey  diden' 
know  no  bettah,  an'  jess  sat  up  eatin'  like  white  folks, 
but  I  wuz  dat  flustered  eatin'  off  Miss  Belle's  chiny 
plates,  an'  Miss  Belle  a  waitin'  on  me,  dat  a  gret  big 
lump  come  up  in  mah  throat. 

" Sun-down  come  'long,  an'  I  goes  up  staihs  with  the 
chilluns  tuh  bed.  I  like  tuh  died.  Miss  Belle  she  said : 
'Georgie — wre  gwine  tuh  let  you  sleep  in  dis  heah  wing 
room.  We-all  don'  use  it  no  moah,  but  we  keep  some 
ob  de  ole  home  things  heah/  Sure  nuff,  dar's  de  gret 


68  OLE    ANN. 

big  bed  dat  come  f um  Frankfort,  de  wides'  one  (wide 
nuff  foh  six  chilluns),  ovah  de  head  wuz  de  big 
canopy  wid  de  red  linin'  an'  on  dat  bed  wuz  fethas  an' 
pillahs  tuh  make  you  smotha.  Ovah  de  stan'  wuz  de 
gret  big  gilt  glass,  Miss  Belle's  fatha  give  huh,  an' 
in  de  room  wuz  a  few  moah  things,  an'  in  de  co'nah 
some  haih  trunks. 

"When  Miss  Belle  goes  out,  I  jess  put  mah  ole  shawl 
on  de  floah,  an'  put  a  pillah  on  dat,  an'  dar  I  lays  de 
chilluns.  'Gret  Ian !'  sez  I,  'I  can't  sleep  in  dat  bed. 
Miss  Belle's  gran'motha'd  come  back  heah  an'  huh 
hant  'u'd  jess  war  me  out.  No.  Georgie,  you'd  look  like 
a  soot  spot  on  a  snow  bank,  up  dar' ;  an'  so  I  sleeps  on 
de  floah. 

"In  de  mornin'  I  made  waffles  foh  breakfus,  an'  den 
I  tells  Miss  Belle,  Ize  gwine  home.  She  an'  Marse 
Willie  said,  'Why  Georgie  you  bettah  stay  a  week.' 
Dey  coulden'  'suade  me.  'No,'  sez  I,  'no,  Ize  gwine 
home  tuh  Hollis.' 

"I  taken  de  five  dollahs  Marse  Willie  give  me,  an' 


AFTER  FREEDOM  CAME.  69 

Igoes  home.  Befo'  clat  I  diden'  think  much  ob  free 
dom — workin'  hard  an'  livin'  poah — wuss  dan  any 
slave  I  evah  seen — but  when  I  gits  home  dat  night, 
I  sets  down  outside  mah  little  cabin,  an'  I  sez  tub 
Hollis: 

"  'Hollis,  freedom's  queah.  White  folks,  if  dey  has 
niggahs,  needs  tub  live  in  de  big  houses,  an'  de  nig- 
gahs  dey  needs  de  quartans.'  My  Miss  Belle,  huh 
gran'chillun,  dey  is  dat  ordinary  an'  impolite.  Dey 
laces  up  dey  own  shoes,  an'  dey  waits  on  deyselves ; 
an'  Marse  Willie's  little  boy  he  set  right  still  in  his 
char  readin'  an'  nevah  even  look  up  when  his  gran'- 
motha  come  into  de  room.' 


felncle  Dcn?ie  cmH  the 


(70 


UNCLE  DAVIE  AND  THE  TELEPHONE. 

INCLE  DAVIE  JOHNSON  was  quite  sure 

that  he  got  due  credit  for  being  the 
smartest  old  man  in  the  town  where  he 
lived.  Born  and  bred  a  slave,  freedom  came  when  he 
was  past  his  prime,  and  he  had  never  even  learned 
his  letters.  He  used  to  contrive  in  all  sorts  of  pathetic 
ways,  to  impress  the  younger  generation  with  his  wis 
dom;  on  summer  evenings  he  would  sit  on  the  steps 
in  front  of  his  little  cabin,  holding  the  paper  in  his 
hand;  now  and  again  polishing  his  spectacles  and  re 
adjusting  them  to  his  old  eyes,  and  pretending  to  read 
the  news  to  his  wife  and  the  neighbors.  She  never 
was  quite  sure  that  Uncle  Davie  could  not  read. 

He  always  protested  against  being  called  an  old 
man.  "Why  Ize  young,  ve'y  young  foh  a  hard  workin' 
man, — an'  dese  heah  modern  fixin's,  see  how  I  under 
stand  dem — tel'phones  an'  'lectricities,  and  tergraphies. 

(73) 


74  OLE    ANN. 

I  studies  a  heap  'bout  dose  things  an'  I  knows  all  'bout 
dem." 

Perhaps  Uncle  Davie  did  "study  a  heap  'bout  dose 
things"  for  he  was  the  porter  in  a  large  elevator,  and 
he  had  only  to  press  a  little  button  to  bring  brilliant 
light  into  the  place  where  darkness  had  been.  Uncle 
Davie  could  remember  the  days  when  a  bit  of  candle 
was  a  hoarded  treasure,  and  the  "wintergreen  candles" 
the  pride  of  the  Christmas  Tide. 

One  day  Uncle  Davie's  employer  heard  the  tinkle 
of  the  telephone  bell  in  his  outer  office,  and  started  to 
answer  its  call,  when  he  heard  a  voice;  looking  into 
the  room  he  saw  Uncle  Davie,  busily  engaged  in  sweep 
ing.  Uncle  Davie  stopped  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  instrument,  saying : 
"Jingy,  jingy;  stop  dat  ringin',  aint  I  done  tol'  you— 
stop  dat  ringin' — dey's  nobody  heah  but  de  potah,  no 
body  heah  but  de  potah." 


Poll? 


(75) 


POLLY  SOFTENED,  AND  LEANED  TOWARD  us. 

(77) 


POLLY. 

|OME  years  ago  there  was  a  great  exodus 
of  Tennessee  negroes  to  the  West. 
Great  boat-loads  of  them  came  up  the 
Mississippi  river  to  St.  Louis,  and  thousands  of  them 
drifted  on  to  Kansas  City,  coming  by  boat  and  by  rail, 
until  the  city  was  almost  besieged,  and  found  it  a  diffi 
cult  matter  to  take  care  of  them.  There  were  tents 
erected  on  the  levee  and  along  the  river  banks;  for 
many  weeks  the  citizens  clothed  and  fed  the  refugees, 
and  some  of  them  were  sent  farther  west. 

My  father  took  me  to  see  the  wonderful  sight,  and  to 
hear  the  new  voices  speak ;  for  the  negro  of  the  South 
has  a  different  accent  from  the  negro  of  Missouri. 
The  South  has  lent  to  the  Southwest  a  wonderfully 
soft  and  attractive  accent,  but  it  is  more  like  the  ac 
cent  of  the  Englishman  than  that  of  a  Southerner,  and 
decidedly  different. 

(79) 


8O  OLE    ANN. 

We  were  at  this  time  missing  an  old  family  servant, 
who  after  years  of  service,  had  died.  One  day  a  ring 
at  the  door  bell  of  our  side  entrance,  heralded  the  ar 
rival  of  a  diminutive  yellow  woman,  clad  in  a  very 
clean,  much  starched  gown  of  green-and-whtte  ging 
ham.  She  wanted  work.  She  had  traveled  far  enough, 
she  said,  for  she  had  come  with  the  exodus. 

Polly  staid  and  proved  herself  to  be  an  excellent 
cook.  She  had  never  married,  and  in  all  my  experi 
ence  she  is  the  only  negress  I  have  known  who  placed 
"No  'pendence  on  men  folks,"  and  thought  them  an 
"ornery  lot." 

The  gardener  was  a  lazy  man,  and  entirely  willing 
that  his  wife  should  supplement  his  earnings  by  doing 
laundry  work.  He  used  to  jeer  at  Polly  for  never  hav 
ing  married,  and  one  day  when  she  had  reached  the 
limit  of  her  patience  she  said  to  him : 

"Now,  you  go  long  'bout  your  business  William. 
I  kin  marry  if  I  wants  tuh ;  its  a  mighty  queah  cullud 
woman  dat  can't  get  an'  ole  niggah  man  foh  tuh  wash 
foh !" 


POLLY.  8l 

When  the  long  summer  evenings  came,  Polly  would 
sit  out  in  the  grape-arbor  smoking  her  pipe,  reflecting 
on  the  journey  she  had  taken,  and  the  friends  that  she 
had  left. 

She  was  always  sure  of  an  audience  of  two  small, 
and  much  interested  little  girls,  if  it  was  her  mood  to 
tell  stories ;  but  it  was  long  before  we  could  coax  from 
her  any  bit  of  her  own  history. 

<kl  ain't  no  fiel'  han'.  I  done  bin  raised  by  ladies.  I 
nevah  leave  while  mah  Miss  May  she's  livin',  but  she's 
daid.  Dey's  all  daid,  and  Ize  boun'  tuh  trabble.  I  ain't 
nevah  gwine  tuh  want  foh  nothin',  for  I  has  money, 
an'  I  kin  wuk." 

Polly  looked  so  important,  that  my  little  sister  and  I 
immediately  had  visions  of  the  sort  of  wealth  that 
Aladdin's  lamp  commanded,  and  Polly  seeing  our  rapt 
attention,  softened  and  leaned  toward  us,  the  stiff  folds 
of  her  gingham  gown  standing  out  about  her,  her  little 
yellow  head  under  its  bandanna  handkerchief,  tipped 
to  one  side. 


82  OLE    ANN. 

"I  has  money,  chilluns;  I  has  two  hundred  dollahs. 
Miss  May  done  lef  it  tub  me,  an'  young  Marse  Wil 
liam  is  keepin'  it  fob  me  till  I  wants  it." 

Two  hundred  dollars,  seemed  the  wealth  of  the 
Indies  to  Polly.  It  seemed  a  heap  to  the  two  little 
girls  who  were  listening  to  her.  There  in  the  deepen 
ing  twilight  they  sat,  the  odor  of  wild  grapes,  sweetest 
odor  of  springtime,  wafted  to  them  with  every  breeze ; 
and  one  by  one  the  stars  came  out  while  Polly  talked 
of  bonnie  Miss  May  and  young  Marse  William. 

"I  come  wid  de  'scursion,  'cause  dat  I  diden'  have 
tub  spen'  mah  fortune  dat  way.  All  along  de  folks 
dey  feeds  an'  ministahs  tub  us;  when  dey  come  on  de 
boat  an'  dey  says,  'Whar's  you  man?'  I  says,  'I  has 
no  man;  Ize  all  alone  in  de  wort','  an'  dey  treats  me 
extry  nice,  thinkin'  mah  man  is  daid.  De  wimmen  as 
has  men  dey  doan  get  but  jess  half  de  pickin's,  'sides 
waitin'  on  de  men.  W'immen  dey  is  mos'ly  fools. 
Shoo!  you  chilluns  go  into  you  bed,  else  you  won' 


83 

get  no  beauty  sleep,  an'  when  you  grows  up,  de  men 
dey  won'  like  you." 

One  day  father  found  in  the  stable  an  old  tin  pan 
filled  with  rusty  nails,  and  what  was  apparently  vine 
gar.  Floating  in  the  liquid  were  three  black  beans. 
Just  as  he  was  about  to  throw  it  out,  Polly  sprang 
toward  him  from  the  open  door. 

"Don'  sah!  don'  frow  out  mah  tonic!  Foh  de 
Lawd's  sake  don'  frow  out  mah  charm !  I  brung  dem 
beans  f'mn  de  Souf.  Dey  wuz  mah  mammy's  beans, 
she  got  dem  f'um  a  Cunjah  man.  It  wuk,  shuah,  if 
you  keeps  it  in  de  stable  ob  a  coal-black  horse,  an'  you 
takes  some  ev'y  mohnin' ;  den  nothin'  ain't  gwine  tuh 
get  you  fob  a  yeah,  sah." 

Father  left  the  pan,  and  told  Polly  she  would  be  so 
freckled,  that  she  could  not  see  her  face,  if  she  took 
all  that  iron. 

When  Polly  left  us  she  had  saved  quite  a  little  sum 
of  money,  and  she  rented  a  cabin  on  one  of  the  bluffs 


84  OLE    ANN. 

above  the  depot.  Here  she  lived  thriftily  enough,  tak 
ing  in  washing  and  doing  odd  chores.  One  time  in  the 
winter  she  was  missing  from  her  cabin  for  several 
weeks,  and  we  could  find  no  trace  of  her.  When  she 
came  to  see  us  again,  clean,  and  prim  as  ever,  she 
placidly  informed  us  that  she  "hadn't  been  no-whar, 
but  tuh  jail." 

"Jail,  Polly,  jail!  why,  what  do  you  mean?" 
"Yes'm,  jail,"  repeated  Polly.  "I  took  a  little  coal— 
dere  ain't  no  earthly  use  a-buyin'  coal  when  de  railroads 
dey  drops  so  much  on  de  tracks.  I  picked  up  some, 
an'  de  p'liceman  he  say  dey  jess  got  tuh  stop  dis  heah 
pickin'  an'  stealin',  so  I  went  tuh  de  jail  an'  cooks  foh 
de  prisoners,  an'  I  got  mah  livin'  an'  I  ain't  touch  mah 
fortune  yet." 


Cupid  and 


(85) 


CUPID  AND  ROSE. 


AM  going  to  make  one  story  of  them,  be 
cause  they  belonged  together.  He  was  tall 
and  slim,  straight  as  an  Indian,  and  an 
old-time  negro  of  a  type  that  is  almost  gone.  She  was 
as  tall,  as  old  a  type,  and  as  old  in  years ;  husband  and 
wife  "without  benefit  of  clergy,"  "for"  as  they  ex 
pressed  it,  "huh  ole  man  an'  mah  ole  woman  dey  done 
bin  sold  off  tuh  de  Souf,  an'  dey  nevah  come  back; 
we-all  can't  live  alone.  We-all's  frien's,  an'  so  we  jess 
married  ouahselves.  We  nevah  seen  ouah  own  again ; 
dey's  prob'bly  daid,  an'  we  don'  like  'vorces,  so  if  dey 
comes  back  we  kin  jess  git  unmarried." 

They  never  will  come  back,  and  these  two  old  peo 
ple,  faithful,  devoted,  with  the  true  spirit  of  marriage 
in  their  hearts,  kept  on  their  uncriticised  way.  They, 
too,  are  "daid"  now,  and  long  ere  this,  all  that  was  in 
any  real  sense  their  own,  is  again  theirs. 

(89) 


9O  OLE    ANN. 

Cupid  is  a  very  strange  name  to  bestow  on  any  son 
of  man,  but  since  it  was  his  real  name,  what  else  could 
I  call  him  ?  Besides,  the  utter  inappropriateness  of  the 
name  was  one  of  the  things  that  made  him  interesting. 
Rose,  well,  there  have  been  black  Roses  before,  doubt 
less  will  be  again. 

Cupid  was  an  excellent  gardener,  and  one  spring  he 
wanted  to  plant  watermelons  on  a  sunny,  uncultivated 
slope  at  the  rear  of  the  orchard.  His  master  bought 
him  some  fine  seeds  and  told  him  that  he  might  have  all 
of  the  melons  that  he  raised,  except  those  wanted  for 
the  family's  use.  So  the  seeds  were  planted,  but  the 
family  got  very  few  melons,  except  now  and  again  one 
that  Cupid  would  designate  as  a  "runt"  and  then  pro 
ceed  to  abuse  "dat  good  fob  nothin'  hillside  dat  gimme 
so  much  trouble  an'  don'  bar  no  fruit." 

One  night  his  master  and  mistress  were  out  driving 
and  came  in  quite  late,  just  as  the  young  moon  was 
slipping  behind  a  cloud.  They  turned  in  at  the  big 
stone  gateway,  and  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  saw 


CUPID    AND    ROSE.  QI 

a  figure  crouching  down.  The  master  took  the  car 
riage  whip,  and  got  out  of  the  phaeton  while  the  mis 
tress  drove  on  a  few  paces. 

"Who  is  there?"  No  answer.  "Who  is  there?"  re 
peated  he.  "Come  out  instantly  or  I'll  surely  use  this 
carriage  whip!"  Up  rose  a  tall  black  figure.  Cupid! 

"What  is  in  that  bag?" 

"Nothing  sah,  nothin'.  Dey  ain't  nothin'  in  dis  heah 
bag."  The  sides  of  the  bag  were  bulging  out,  and 
Cupid  still  swore  that  there  was  nothing  in  it.  Re 
luctantly  he  opened  it  and  disclosed  a  lot  of  big,  fine 
melons,  which  he  was  carrying  off  for  his  own  delecta 
tion,  and  when  he  tried  to  "splain"  he  said  "white 
folks,  dey  doan  care  foh  melons  like  we-all,  an'  dey 
oughten  ter  have  de  bigges'  ones." 

At  one  time  Rose  was  very  ill ;  at  the  point  of  death, 
it  seemed,  and  Cupid  was  in  sore  distress.  When  he 
came  for  his  day's  task  his  mistress  said  to  him :  "How 
is  Rosie  this  morning?" 

"She's  libbin',  ma'am.     Las'  night  we  thought  huh 


Q2  OLE    ANN. 

time  come  shuah  nuf.  Rosie,  she  's  in  cle  bed  wid  a 
pillah  undah  huh  back,  an'  Elvine  (her  grand-daugh 
ter)  wuz  a-sleepin'  on  de  floah.  Der  come  an  awful 
noise!  bump!  bumpty!  bum!  down  de  side  ob  de  hill 
an'  Elvine  she  jumps  up  an'  she  says:  'Grandmotha, 
de  Lawd's  comin'  foh  you  shuah,  dis  time!'  'Well, 
if  He  is,  He's  makin'  a  mighty  powerful  noise  'bout 
it,'  said  Rosie,  'an'  jess  den  a  big  rock  roll  down  de 
hill  an'  bus'  in  de  doah — bang!  spang! — an'  Rosie,  she 
know  dat  ain't  no  messangeh  foh  huh." 

Cupid  was  just  his  master's  height,  and,  of  course, 
came  in  for  all  of  his  master's  cast-off  clothing.  He 
was  very  proud  and  happy  over  an  old  silk  hat,  and 
said  to  his  master:  "Dis  heah  hat  suttinly  makes  me 
feel  like  a  gen'leman,  yes  sail !  it  suttinly  do ;  I  got  tuh 
get  out  mah  dignity  when  I  wars  dis  heah." 

Still  his  happiness  was  not  quite  complete,  for  his 
master  had  not  given  him  a  Prince  Albert  coat,  which 
he  especially  coveted.  "I  need  dat,  sah,  I  need  dat  to 
war  tuh  de  Quarterly  an'  tuh  de  Conference.  A  preacher 


CUPID    AND    ROSE.  93 

He  ain't  half  a  preacher,  wiclout  cle  right  kin  ob  clo'es. 
Now  you  done  gimme  de  neckties  an'  de  hat,  ain't  you 
gwine  ttih  gimme  dat  coat?" 

Cupid  liked  to  hear  the  news,  and  his  master's 
daughter  often  read  to  him.  At  the  time  of  Mr.  Cleve 
land's  first  nomination  to  the  presidency  she  was  read 
ing  the  political  news  to  him.  "Missie"  and  Cupid 
were  the  best  of  friends  and  many  an  argument  they 
had  over  the  questions  of  the  day. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Cupid;  "yes'm,  Mistah  Cleveland  he 
jess  all  right.  I  dun  knowed  him  when  he  wuz  a 
Ma jah  in  de  Southan  ahmy." 

"Cupid !  he  never  was  in  the  Southern  army." 
"Yes,  honey,  he  wuz,  he  suttinly  wuz." 
"Well,"  said  Missie,  after  some  argument,   "if  an 
ignorant  old  man  like  you  can  vote,  I  would  just  like 
to  know  why  an  intelligent  white  woman  can  not." 

"I  knows  de  reason,"  said  Cupid,  straightening  up 
his  tall,  spare  figure.  "I  knows  de  reason.  It  am  jess 
dis,  Missie,"  and  then  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  he 


94  OLE    ANN. 

said,  "de  reason  am  dis,  dey  ain't  got  de  masculine 
qualifications — dey  ain't  got  de  masculine  qualifica 
tions." 

Like  many  of  the  old  time  negroes,  he  worked  on  the 
six  working  days  of  the  week,  and  "preached"  on  Sun 
days.  He  could  not  read,  yet  he  always  preached  with 
the  Bible  open  before  him.  When  asked  why  he  had 
the  Bible  there  and  what  he  preached  about,  since  he 
could  not  read,  he  said : 

"I  keeps  de  book  befo'  me,  'cause  I  know  dat  God's 
word  is  dere,  an'  I  don'  need  tuh  read  ary  tex'  foh  I 
kin  always  preach  'bout  de  Lawd  Jesus." 

Could  any  one  do  more  than  this,  to  help  uplift  hu 
manity — "teach  and  preach  'bout  de  Lawd  Jesus?" 

When  Cupid  came  to  his  last  illness,  he  lay  patiently 
suffering  for  many  weeks.  Finally  he  refused  to  take 
the  nourishing  food  which  his  mistress  took  to  him, 
and  said  that  he  was  ready  to  go  home. 

"What's  de  use  ob  feedin'  clis  heah  ole  body,  when 
mah  soul's  all  ready  tuh  go?  Las'  night  I  seen  a  vision. 


CUPID    AND    ROSE.  95 

I  seen  mah  H1F  gal  a  comin'  foh  me  in  a  gret  white 
chariot,  wid  white  horses  an'  cle  angels.  Ize  gwine  tuh 
go.  I  don'  want  no  moah  tuh  keep  me  heah." 

Some  days  later  he  died  and  was  laid  to  rest  by  the 
"burying  society"  to  which  he  had  so  long  paid  his 
dues. 

Rose  was  inconsolable,  and  promptly  invested  her 
savings  in  some  "mawnin."  She  wore  what  might  per 
haps  be  termed  "half  mourning"  at  the  first,  appearing 
about  a  year  later  in  full  "widow's  weeds."  When 
questioned  as  to  the  wherefore  of  so  strange  a  proceed 
ing  she  said : 

"I  coulden'  no  ways  afford  tuh  git  it  at  de  fust,  an' 
anyhow  de.  longer  he's  gone  de  wuss  I  feels." 


Pauling 


(97) 


PAULINY. 


"Ole  Mistah  Rabbit  he  run  roun'  de  house, 
Ole  Mistah  Rabbit  he  run  roun'  de  house, 
Run  fas',  or  Brer  Fox  he  catch  him !" 


UST  that  refrain  from  an  old  negro  melody 
haunts  me,  when  I  think  of  Pauliny,  for 
many  years  an  aggravating,  but  altogether 


competent  servant.  She  used  to  sing  to  us  in  the  even 
ings,  and  tell  us  old  folk-lore  stories.  Bits  of  Bre'r 
Bar's  story,  and  the  antics  of  Cub  and  Chub  were  her 
particular  delight. 

Pauliny  used  to  do  her  hair  up  in  little  tight,  twine- 
wound  fingers,  and  over  this  she  would  pin  a  wig  of 
buffalo  hair.  The  Southwestern  negress  of  that  day 
considered  a  "buffalo  wig"  as  one  of  the  most  desirable 
of  possessions,  and  those  fortunate  enough  to  own  one 
wore  it  on  state  occasions. 

Pauliny  was  sure  to  be  at  home  after  nightfall, 
(99) 


IOO  OLE   ANN. 

having  a  wholesome  fear  of  what  she  called  "dem 
medics."  She  said  "I  jess  can't  bar  tuh  heah  'bout  de 
way  dey  pickles  cullud  pussons  an'  puts  dem  in  bar'ls 
till  deys  ready  foh  tuh  cut  dem  up." 

One  night  there  was  a  terrible  fire  in  the  city;  the 
bluffs  were  as  light  as  though  covered  by  a  million 
bonfires ;  the  tree  branches  standing  out  as  though 
etched  against  the  glowing  sky;  the  light  as  bright  as 
day,  and  bits  of  burning  wood  blowing  through  the  air ! 
Pauliny  was  frightened  almost  to  death ;  she  got  down 
on  her  knees  and  apologized  to  God  for  the  error  of  her 
ways,  and  begged  and  pleaded  for  mercy,  promised  to 
be  converted  at  once,  and  then  said,  "No,  .Lord,  dis 
heah  ain't  no  Sodom,  an'  you  needn'  buhn  up  de  whole 
city  jess  on  mah  'count!" 

Her  religion  was  much  like  that  of  the  little  girl  who 
for  three  nights  had  refused  to  say  her  prayers  and 
who,  when  her  mother  expostulated,  said :  "Nussin' 
cliden'  det  me  las'  night;  I  ain't  doin'  to  say  'em  zis 


PAULINY.  IOI 

night  or  to-morrow  night,  an'  zen  if  nussin'  don't  det 
me,  I  ain't  ever  doin'  to  say  em  adain.' 

Panliny's  name  was  of  course  Pauline,  but  she  called 
it  Pauliny,  with  a  long  drawn  accent  on  the  "iny."  She 
was  a  "likely  gal"  and  had  various  beaus,  to  the  charms 
of  one  of  whom  she  finally  succumbed.  "Mistah  Sil- 
lus".was  a  tall  yellow  man,  and  the  owner  of  a  flourish 
ing  barber-shop.  We  children  had  the  fun  of  choosing 
gifts  for  the  wedding,  and  promised  ourselves  much 
pleasure,  when  we  were  to  go  and  see  our  Pauliny  in 
all  the  glory  of  a  white  veil  and  orange  blossoms.  "The 
best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men" — you  know  the  rest ; 
and  in  this  case  it  was  I  who  caused  them  to  "gang 
agley."  I  fell  from  a  tree  on  the  morning  of  the  wed 
ding  clay,  and  the  family  spent  the  wedding  hour  at 
tending  to  my  somewhat  grievous  hurts. 

The  years  slipped  away,  and  were  numbered  with  the 
yesterdays;  and  for  Pauliny  the  end  of  recorded  time 
came  about  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty. 


IO2  OIvK    ANN. 

"Mistah  Sillus"  said :  "She  is  suttinly  gone  straight 
tuh  glory,  foh  she  always  wuz  de  bes'  dress'  woman  in 
ouah  church  an'  de  devoutes'.  She  done  got  'ligion  at 
de  time  ob  de  gret  fiah,  an'  she  neveh  slid  back,  foh 
she  said  one  fiah  wuz  nuff  foh  huh — shuah !" 


(103) 


SHE    LEANED    ON    HER    LITTLE,    SAGGING    GATE. 

(105) 


JULIE. 


UUE  is  for  the  most  part  a  very  dim  and 
distant  shadow,  but  one  thing  about  her 
I  have  never  forgotten,  although  I  was  a 
very  little  child  when  it  happened. 

Julie  lived  on  Turkey  Creek.  The  city  was  young 
then.  The  creek  was  the  boundary  line  between  the 
country  and  the  city.  Delightful  wild  flowers  grew  on 
its  banks ;  Sunday  schools  went  there  for  picnics ;  small 
boys  ran  away  and  went  there  to  fish.  Today  it  is  a 
great  covered  sewer.  Then,  along  its  banks,  were 
occasional  huts  where  the  negroes  lived,  little  frame  or 
log  cabins  perched  close  on  the  edge  of  the  stream, 
and  fenced  in  with  old  Virginia  rail-fences. 

Julie  was  the  family  laundress  and  had  proved  most 
faithful,  but  on  one  occasion  she  failed  to  appear.  One, 
two,  three  weeks  passed,  and  no  Julie.  Mother  began 

to  feel  that  perhaps  the  woman  was  ill,  and  so  one 

(107) 


IO8  OLE    ANN. 

sunny  afternoon  she  drove  her  pony  down  the  steep 
hill,  and  we  went  to  see  what  had  become  of  Julie. 
Down  the  somewhat  dangerous  slope  we  drove,  past 
great  boulders  where  men  were  at  \vork  blasting. 

How  we  had  to  watch  for  the  "blasters."  A  man 
wearing  a  bright  red  flannel  shirt  would  run  out  into 
the  road,  waving  his  arms  and  shouting  warnings  to 
the  passers  by.  Every  one  would  wait,  and  presently 
there  would  be  a  puff  of  smoke,  white  like  a  cloud,  a 
loud  report,  some  bits  of  stone  flying,  some  rocks  rent, 
and  then  every  one  was  at  liberty  to  go  on  down  the 
hillside,  seeing  in  the  distance  the  waters  of  the  Mis 
souri  sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  the  Kansas  river  wind 
ing  its  shining  way  to  the  West.  Down,  down  the 
steep  hill — where  now  a  noisy,  useful  cable  car 
rushes — the  pony  picked  his  way,  and  after  a  time  we 
were  again  on  level  ground. 

As  we  drove  along  the  creek  bank,  Mother  inquired 
of  various  negroes  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Julie's 
house,  and  finally  she  found  it.  It  was  a  single  cabin, 


JUUE.  109 

just  one  room,  made  of  old  weather-boards,  and  the 
little  yard  was  enclosed  with  a  rail  fence,  on  which 
hung  various  garments  and  quilts.  The  yard  was  bare, 
save  for  a  huge  locust  tree,  and  so  tramped  over  and 
swept  that  it  was  like  a  clean,  hard  table  of  earth.  A 
few  chickens  and  one  or  two  ducks  were  scratching 
about,  and  Julie  herself  was  seated  in  front  of  the 
house.  When  she  saw  Mother,  she  arose  at  once  and 
came  to  her  litttle  sagging  gate. 

"Why!  Miss  May,  whar  you  done  come  f'um?  Is 
you  come  tuh  see  whar  I  bin?" 

Mother  said  that  was  what  she  had  come  for,  and 
then  Julie  explained  her  absence.  She  was  an  uncom 
monly  tall  old  woman,  and  very  black,  and  her  voice 
was  deep  like  a  man's  voice.  I  was  always  a  little  in 
awe  of  her. 

"Ize  in  mawnin',"  said  Julie. 

"Mourning?"  queried  Mother.  "Why,  Julie,  for 
whom?  What  is  the  trouble?'' 

Julie  took  a  whiff  at  her  pipe,  and  then  in  the  most 
placid  manner  announced : 


110  OLE    ANN. 

"Mali  ole  man's  daid.  He  done  drownded.  He  wuz 
a-sittin'  on  de  fence  back  yondah,  a-smokin'  his  pipe, 
an'  his  back  war  tuh  de  creek,  an'  he  los'  his  balance 
an'  he  jess  fell  in." 

Mother  was  shocked,  and  asked  if  nothing  had  been 
done  to  save  him. 

"Yes'm,  yes'm,"  said  Julie.  "Yes'm,  yes'm,  we  done 
fish  him  out,  an'  he  still  got  his  pipe  in  his  teef.  We- 
uns  couldn't  do  nothin'  foh  him,  nohow.  Hung  him 
ovah  de  fence  foh  de  watah  tuh  run  out,  an'  he  done 
drip — an'  drip — an'  drip — but  he  nevah  did  come  to." 


KingHom   o 


Cm) 


SALINA  GABRIELLE. 

("3) 


FROM  THE  KINGDOM  O'  GALLOWAY. 

ETER  the  Great  was  not  a  czar  but  he  bore 
himself  with  great  dignity,  for  he  had 
come  up  to  Westport  town  from  Gallo 
way  County,  or  as  it  is  known  in  old  Missouri,  "The 
Kingdom  o'  Galloway." 

The  Kingdom  o'  Galloway  lies  about  in  the  center  of 
the  state,  and  is  truly  a  land  of  plenty.  The  Marma- 
dukes,  the  Clays,  and  the  Lacklands,  are  still  lords  of 
the  soil,  as  in  ante-bellum  days,  and  but  few,  very  few, 
of  the  old  serfs  or  their  descendants  have  moved  away. 
"You  kin  always  tell  de  quality  f'um  Galloway — dey 
walks  so  biggety,"  the  darkies  would  say,  and  imitating 
the  quality,  they  too  walked  "biggety." 

Peter  the  Great  was  part  Indian,  part  negro,  and  had 
there  been  no  bronze  tint  to  his  skin,  his  quiet  step  and 
silent  ways  would  have  proclaimed  the  Indian  blood. 
He  came  to  Westport  town  and  found  occupation  as  a 

(115) 


Il6  OLE    ANN. 

general  utility  man,  but  he  also  found  something  more 
— he  found  Salina  Gabrielle. 

Salina  Gabrielle,  too,  was  part  Indian,  with  copper 
colored  skin  and  straight  black  hair,  and  the  bearing  of 
a  fairy- story  princess. 

Uncle  Ephraim  Johnson  had  found  her  when  she 
was  a  baby,  just  before  the  close  of  the  war,  and  he  had 
taken  her  home  to  his  cabin,  to  be  one  of  his  own. 

Mammy  Jane  had  given  her  her  name,  and  had  loved 
her  and  cuffed  her  about,  as  she  did  her  own  dusky 
brood.  "She  might  be  de  spittin'  image  of  huh  motha 
or  huh  fatha,  but  you  can't  tell,  anyhow  she  ain't  nevah 
been  sol'  foh  money,"  and  Mammy  Jane's  eyes  grew 
dim  as  she  recalled  the  long  ago  day  when  she  had  been 
put  on  the  slave  block — a  little  helpless  maid — and  sold 
away  from  her  mother. 

Salina  Gabrielle  came  up  to  the  big  house  by  and  by, 
to  learn  to  be  a  housemaid;  but  the  process  was  slow, 
for  the  children  loved  to  coax  her  away  to  share  their 
play.  She  would  bring  stones  for  the  little  houses,  over 


FROM   THE   KINGDOM    O'    GALLOWAY. 

the  walls  of  which  one  could  so  conveniently  step,  and 
into  all  parts  of  which  the  sun  shone.  She  could  pole  a 
raft  on  the  pond,  and  was  the  best  of  sentinels  when 
the  children  played  "Swiss  Family  Robinson"  in  their 
big  walnut  tree.  She  it  was  who  always  went  into  the 
house  to  "fess  up"  when  some  particularly  naughty 
piece  of  mischief  had  been  done.  Up  the  drive  she 
would  walk,  singing  as  she  went : — 

"Is  you  gwine  tuh  tell  you  mammy  on  me? 
I  don'  care,  Ize  free,  Ize  free." 

For  years  she  struggled  to  learn  how  to  tell  time,  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  do  it.  She  would  always 
insist  upon  it  that  the  short  hand  on  the  clock's  face 
was  the  minute  hand,  "fob  because  minnits  dey  is  sur- 
tinly  sho'tah  dan  ouahs." 

Like  most  of  her  race,  Salina  Gabrielle,  was  a 
staunch  believer  in  ghosts,  or  as  they  call  them  "hants." 
One  still  summer  night,  the  family  had  all  gone  to 
sleep,  but  the  windows  and  doors  were  open,  for  the 
night  was  a  very  hot  one.  The  master  was  awakened 


Il8  OIvE    ANN. 


by  a  noise  without,  as  though  a  horse  were  tramping 
down  the  sod  and  flowers.  Going  to  a  window  he  saw 
that  some  cows  had  broken  into  his  yard,  and  were 
browsing  about  near  his  flower  beds.  Hastily  robing 
himself,  in  garments  principally  white,  he  started  down 
to  drive  the  cows  out  of  the  yard.  In  the  hall  he  picked 
up  a  carriage  whip  and  the  cows  were  driven  down  the 
slope  and  out  at  the  gateway.  Just  as  he  gave  a  part 
ing  crack  of  the  whip,  to  frighten  the  cows,  he  heard  a 
most  unearthly  yell,  and  the  sound  of  human  feet  flying 
quickly  by. 

The  next  morning  when  the  negroes  came  over  from 
their  cabins,  there  was  great  excitement. 

"Did  you-all  know  dere  wuz  a  hant  ovah  heah  las' 
night?" 

"No!    Tell  us  about  it." 

"Well,"    said    Salina    Gabrielle,    "jess    as    Andrew 

Jackson  wuz  a  comin'  f'um  Ahmstrong,  whar  he  done 

bin  tuh  see  his  gal,  he  wuz  a-passin'  you-all's  place,  an' 

way  up  yondah,  undah  de  shadow  ob  you-all's  trees,  he 


PETER  THE  GREAT. 
("9) 


FROM    THE   KINGDOM    O     GALLOWAY.  121 

seen  somethhr  white  a  comin'  at  him,  an'  when  it  got 
neah  tuh  him,  it  wuz  a  big  hant  with  holms  an'  a  long 
fiery  tail." 

As  she  grew  older,  Salina  Gabrielle  learned  to  read 
and  to  write  a  little,  but  she  could  not  be  induced  to 
carry  her  education  beyond  that  point.  She  grew  to  be 
a  faithful,  trusty  servant,  but  there  were  times  when 
she  simply  could  not  stand  civilized  life,  and  she  would 
run  away  and  be  gone  for  days.  Especially  would  she 
be  restless  when  the  red-bud  flowered,  and  spring  hung 
out  her  flower-decked  banners ;  and  again  the  haze  of 
Indian  summer  would  lure  her  off  to  the  woods  to 
search  for  persimmons  and  nuts.  On  her  return  from 
one  of  these  pilgrimages  she  first  saw  Peter  the  Great. 

Peter  had  just  been  engaged  as  a  permanent  helper 
on  the  place,  and  was  standing,  hat  in  hand,  at  one  of 
the  long  French  windows  that  opened  from  the  library 
onto  the  gallery  at  the  back  of  the  house.  As  Salina 
Gabrielle  came  up  the  broad  steps,  Peter  knew  his  mate 
at  a  glance,  and  the  master  of  the  house  might  have 


122  OLE    ANN. 

made  any  conditions  that  he  chose,  for  where  Salina 
Gabrielle  was,  there  Peter  intended  to  be. 

They  were  rather  a  silent  pair,  and  when  Peter's 
wooing  was  done,  no  one  knew  save  Salina.  One 
lovely  Indian  Summer  day,  the  wanderlust  took  posses 
sion  of  them  both,  and  they  disappeared  into  the  woods. 
Peter  went  first  and  Ephraim  said  "he'd  just  gone  a- 
fishin'."  After  a  while  Salina  Gabrielle  disappeared, 
and  later  they  were  together  on  the  banks  of  the  Little 
Blue. 

Peter  had  good  luck  with  his  fishing  that  day,  and 
Salina  Gabrielle  cooked  him  a  dinner  which  would  have 
tempted  an  anchorite  to  eat. 

Early  in  the  day  she  built  a  bonfire  between  two  logs, 
and  then  she  laid  some  stones  in  it  to  heat.  When 
there  was  a  pile  of  hot  ashes  ready,  she  put  potatoes 
and  corn  on  the  stones  and  covered  them  over  with  the 
ashes.  From  somewhere  she  produced  a  long-handled 
skillet,  in  which  later  she  fried  the  fish. 


FROM  THE:  KINGDOM  o'  GALLOWAY.  123 

Peter  caught  the  fish,  but  true  to  his  Indian  blood,  he 
let  Salina  Gabrielle  do  the  rest  of  the  work,  and  she 
served  him  without  question. 

Several  days  later  they  came  home  again,  and  Peter 
asked  for  the  little  cabin  next  to  Ephraim's,  in  which  to 
continue  the  primitive  housekeeping  that  had  begun 
with  that  first  dinner  on  the  banks  of  the  Little  Blue. 

Uncle  Ephraim  was  not  satisfied.  "Dey's  got  tub  be 
a  sure  nuff  weddin'  an'  its  gwine  tub  be  in  de  Baptis' 
church.  Brotha  Turnah  he's  a  comin'  tomorrow  and 
we's  gwine  tub  tell  all  de  folks  tub  be  tbar." 

The  next  evening  the  little  church  was  crowded  with 
all  of  the  colored  people  from  the  neighboring  places. 
Bright  cotton  gowns,  and  flower  trimmed  hats,  and 
here  and  there  second-hand  finery — the  much  prized 
gift  of  some  white  woman — adorned  the  women  and 
made  the  place  look  gay. 

There  had  been  a  wedding  at  the  big  house,  some 
weeks  before,  at  which  the  Bishop  had  officiated.  The 


124  OLE    ANN. 

house  servants  had  been  interested  spectators,  and  now 
this  was  their  first  chance  at  having  one  "like  de 
quality." 

How  Ephraim  and  Jane  had  managed  it  all,  no  one 
will  ever  know,  but  some  minutes  after  the  appointed 
hour,  "Brotha  Turnah"  and  Peter  marched  solemnly  up 
the  aisle.  "Brotha  Turnah"  clad  in  a  long  black  robe, 
and  Peter  in  an  old  suit  of  his  master's,  with  collars 
and  cuffs  very  much  in  evidence.  Reaching  the  end  of 
the  aisle  they  faced  about  and  stood  in  front  of  the  little 
hair-cloth  sofa,  awaiting  the  advent  of  the  bride.  The 
next  to  appear  was  Aunt  Jane ;  fat,  smiling,  dignified ; 
wearing  a  tight,  beaded,  black  Jersey  and  a  long  black 
skirt,  and  fanning  herself  vigorously  with  a  turkey 
feather  fan.  She,  too,  went  to  the  end  of  the  aisle  and 
faced  the  congregation,  to  the  evident  dismay  of 
"Brotha  Turnah." 

"How  come  you  standin'  up  heah,  Sistah  Jane? 
You  go  an'  set  wid  you  fambly;  jess  de  bride's  fatha 
Stan's  heah  wid  we-all." 


FROM    THE   KINGDOM    o'    CAU.OWAY.  125 

"What  dat  you  sayin'  Brotha  Turnah?"  and  she 
made  a  threatening  gesture  toward  him  with  her  fan. 
"Nothin',  nothin,'  Sistah  Jane;  you  all  right;  I  reckon 
you  bettah  stan'  jess  whar  you  are." 

After  an  appreciable  pause  came  the  bride  and  Uncle 
Ephraim.  She  in  a  dress  of  white  and  a  long  tarleton 
veil,  which  Aunt  Jane  had  furnished,  and  the  young 
ladies  had  pinned  on  with  loving  care.  In  her  arms  she 
held  a  huge  bunch  of  yellow  chrysanthemums,  from 
Aunt  Jane's  little  garden,  and  Peter's  eyes  glowed  with 
pride  as  they  rested  on  her. 

With  the  old  type  of  the  negro  race,  immoralities,  as 
some  men  count  them,  do  not  mean  much.  Peter  had 
known  that  Salina  Gabrielle  was  his  mate  when  he  saw 
her;  he  would,  with  a  comparatively  clear  conscience, 
have  taken  the  life  of  any  man  whom  she  might  have 
preferred  before  him,  and  "the  weddin,"  he  endured, 
because  Uncle  Ephraim  had  insisted  upon  it,  and  it 
pleased  the  bride. 

The  ceremony  was  a  long  one,  and  when  "Brotha 


126  OLE    ANN. 


Turnah,"  imitating  the  Bishop,  asked  :  "Who  gives  dis 
heah  woman  tuh  dis  man?"  Ephraim  stepped  grandly 
forward  and  bowing  profoundly,  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  answered  :  "I,  Ephraim  Johnson  !" 

The  next  day  Peter  was  in  the  library  waiting  for 
some  orders. 

"By  the  way"  said  his  master,  "I  want  to  make  you 
and  Salina  Gabrielle  a  little  present.  Will  you  take 
this  check  to  the  bank  for  me,  and  the  cashier  will  give 
you  the  money?  How  do  you  spell  your  name?" 

"Petah  de  Great,  sah,"  he  said. 

"No,  no,  your  own  name." 

"Petah  de  Great,"  reiterated  the  darkey. 

"Spell  it,  then,"  said  his  master. 

"Wuh  !  Wuh  !  What's  de  use  ob  all  dese  heah 
books?"  pointing  to  the  well  filled  shelves/  "an'  all  you 
learnin'  an'  can't  spell  a  little  ting  like  dat." 

So  his  master  wrote  it  "Peter  the  Great"  and  the 
bank  honored  the  check. 


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